


truly, sincerely

by PinkHydrangea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Slow Burn, ferdinand von aegir is the perfect romance novel hero lbr, fernadetta rights, in this house we treat bernadetta's mental illnesses seriously, tbh it's more of an arranged engagement, this is basically just a romance novel w/ political drama and bonding over trauma and Stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-01-20 19:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21287012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkHydrangea/pseuds/PinkHydrangea
Summary: Imperial Year 1180The Adrestrian Empire continues to wage war with Brigid and Dagda. In the shadow of the conflict, Bernadetta von Varley finds herself thrust into an engagement with Ferdinand, the charming heir of House Aegir. Though hesitant to form a relationship, they find that their differences may bring them closer than they initially thought possible.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Bernadetta von Varley, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey ny'all im back at it with Another romance novel bc i have minimal self-control. and fernadetta came out of left field and punched me in the throat just as i was thinking "there aren't really any 3h ships i feel invested in" so here we are.
> 
> UUUU idk what else to say except i know there's already an ongoing fernadetta arranged marriage fic out there so i'd like to ask, just in case, that ppl don't draw comparisons, especially in the comments and such. ppl are typically well-meaning when they go "omg this take on this au is so much better than the other one" but it's actually really rude and puts the authors in a really awkward position, so!! please be nice and thoughtful!!! enjoy your multiple cakes!
> 
> i've been outlining and drafting this fic for about 2 months now (as a means to procrastinate my schoolwork) and im really excited to show it to you all, so please enjoy!

> **County of Varley**
> 
> **Day 2 of the Red Wolf Moon, Imperial Year 1180**

_ Deep within the heart of a silent forest, there dwelled a songstress by the name of Edith: a bold, courageous young woman with a thirst for life. Within the forest she would sing her songs, longing to see the world outside of her room. And— and…. _

Bernadetta slams her quill down onto her desk, harder than she means to. A loud _ THUD _ reverberates along her desk and echoes in her bedroom; she holds her breath. After a moment passes, she determines that there is no one outside of her room, or even coming towards it. She breathes again, fingers pressed to her forehead in relief, before turning her attention back to the parchment. It’s been splattered with droplets of ink, flung from the tip of her quill, but it doesn’t matter. Bernadetta picks up the paper, rereads the few lines she’s written, then tears it in two.

“No good, Bernie,” she says aloud. With grit teeth, she starts to rip it into smaller pieces. “Trash, trash trash trash. No good at all!”

There is a story in Bernadetta’s head: one about a songstress that she has tentatively named Edith. And Edith, Bernadetta thinks, is a prisoner. But she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know how Edith got stuck in this prison. She doesn’t even know who is keeping her there. She just keeps thinking about this girl in her head, sad and alone as she gazes out from a window. Of course, Edith will escape — it wouldn’t be much of a story if she didn’t. But Bernadetta doesn’t know how she will, and then she loops back into thinking that she doesn’t know why Edith is there in the first place.

It’s driving her nuts. She just wants to write, but she doesn’t even know what to write about. Without a plot, everything she’s tried to write is just horrible, terrible trash, unworthy of even being called a draft. She’s written short stories before, but never had this kind of trouble with them. Most likely, there is just something wrong with Bernadetta. There must be. That’s always it.

Bernadetta abandons the shreds of her story in the garbage bin by her desk. She stands, putting away her quill and inkwell, then crosses her room to her bookshelf. She stands in front of it, humming thoughtfully. There are fabric bolts propped up by her window that catch her eye. Her violin and trumpet are tucked away in their cases on her bed, and those look fun, but… no. Too noisy. Someone will hear her. Her father may even come up the stairs to demand that she “stop that racket.”

If she can’t write, there has to be something else she can do to take her mind off of what a failure she is. She’s got everything she needs in her room, so there must be something. Embroidery, music, reading, sewing. If her father wasn’t home, she may sneak down to the kitchen to have some fun baking. She knows that if he caught her baking cookies or sweet bread, he’d throw it all away and scold her for not “teaching herself formal dinner recipes.”

Bernadetta is walking on thin ice with her father this week. She’d had a meeting with a suitor last Monday, and none of it had gone well. She forgets which house the man was from, but distinctly remembers that he was pushing 30, and wasn’t very nice. They’d sat in the parlor with her parents while he’d eyed her up and down, loudly proclaiming more than once that she was “on the mousy side, eh?” It certainly didn’t help when he’d started to go on and on about his hobbies, which consisted primarily of harassing common people at the local bar.

“You didn’t smile enough,” her father had snapped. “And you didn’t carry yourself properly; did you see him scoffing at your posture?”

Bernadetta is lucky that nothing came of her father’s anger except a solid hour of scolding. She dreads what will happen when the suitor writes back to — without a doubt — insist that she is simply not the wife for him. A chill jumps up her spine at the thought of it. She bites her lip and twists her fingers, then jumps at a knock at her door.

So slamming her quill against her desk did draw someone to her room after all. They’re going to come in and scold her, tell her no one will ever want a wife who makes so much noise, and—

The knock is followed by three more in rapid succession, then one more offered three seconds after the previous. Bernadetta’s heart soars out of the pit in her stomach. She beats dust off of her leggings, scoots aside a pile of books and sheet music with her feet, and feels as though she can’t open the door fast enough.

On the other side of the door, there is a man with an easy smile. He’s on the taller side, built somewhat lean, and looks down at her with slate-gray eyes that look perpetually sleepy. A thick mop of curly purple hair hangs in his face, as though he doesn’t care to push his bangs back. His clothes are nice, but Bernadetta can see that his trousers and sleek black coat are rumpled from riding.

It’s been months since she last saw her uncle.

“Uncle Theo!” She grabs his hand and pulls him back into her room, back to safety, before he can even get a word out. “You didn’t say that you were—”

“Coming to visit?” Theo’s voice is soft and smooth, tinged with a well-loved affection. He sets a hand on the top of her head, smoothing down her unbrushed cowlicks. “I thought a surprise might be nice. And, I couldn’t resist seeing the way your father might react to an unexpected drop-in.” He pauses, then smiles. “It was pretty great.”

“I’ll never get why he hates you so much.” Bernadetta gets to work clearing her bed of the instrument cases and scraps of idle embroidery. Theo grabs her desk chair and pulls it over, and it’s just then that she notices he has a parcel, wrapped in a lavender ribbon, under his arm. She sits down on her bed and watches as he sets the chair down and sits as well. “What’ve you been up to?”

Theo places the parcel in his lap. “I’ve just been doing administrative work for the army back in Enbarr. There’s been no order for me to head to the front lines, so that’s all I can do for now.”

Bernadetta hopes they never do. She sees her uncle scarcely enough anyway. She doesn’t want him to be on a far-off island without any worldly comforts, surrounded by blood and gunk. Her uncle is better suited to his small house in Enbarr with his sprawling flower gardens, handling correspondence between the capital and the front lines. But, she knows that if the war worsens, he’ll inevitably be sent to fight.

“Supposedly things are settling down,” he continues hastily, “so I don’t expect to be going anywhere. Your uncle Theo is staying safe and sound, Bernie Bear.”

Bernadetta manages a smile, though her stomach is aching. “A—anyway, what brings you home?”

“Nothing much. I just wanted to visit you, maybe see your mom.” Theo picks up the parcel and holds it out to her. “I picked these up in Ochs last I was there. I’ve been waiting for a time to come and give them to you.”

“Oh, wow!” She takes the parcel from him, noting that it’s light. The thick paper crumples in her fingers as she feels for anything that could indicate what the gift is, but loses her patience quickly and begins to pull back the wrapping. She’s greeted by vibrant bundles of thread as soon as she peels the paper away. “Embroidery floss? This is great!”

“I thought you might like to make something nice with it.” Theo turns his head towards her room, every inch of which is covered with some sort of project. She would’ve cleaned if she’d known he’d be coming. “You’re a busy bee, as always. Would you show me something you’ve been making?”

Her eyes dart towards the corner of her room. “It’s all trash. Really, you don’t—”

“Bernie, I’m sure it’s all lovely. You’re very talented, you know.” Theo keeps smiling at her; rarely has Bernadetta seen him not smile when it’s just the two of them. “But, of course, you don’t have to show me. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

“Um, well…” Bernadetta bites her lip and looks around her room, scrambling through her mind for something she can show him so he won’t be disappointed. Maybe she has a composition, or a skirt, or— “Oh, I, uh, I’ve been making a dress, if you wanna see it.”

“I’d be delighted.”

Bernadetta finds the dress hidden away in the corner of her closet, draped around a mannequin. She remembers getting frustrated with it and pushing it to where she couldn’t see it, but it doesn’t look as bad as she remembers. It’s maybe even kinda cute. Huffing and puffing, she pulls it out and sets the mannequin down for her uncle. Were it anyone else looking, she’d probably shrink away and hide under her blankets, waiting for her mattress to swallow her whole, but not with her uncle. Never with him.

“Masterful, as always.” He puts his fingertips against the bodice, gently, tracing a seam. “Are you going to wear this, Bernie?”

“M— maybe.” She swipes her tongue over her lips and looks at her work. It’s a long, dark purple dress, with a high-rise collar made out of some white lace she had lying around. Truthfully, she likes it, but she grimaces looking at the panels in the skirt that gave her so much trouble. “I figure I have to go to all those marriage meetings, so I might as well wear something I like.

Theo opens his mouth, but he’s interrupted by a harsh knock on her door. Bernadetta jumps and fumbles with the mannequin, hastily stuffing it back into her closet. Theo glares at the door, frowning. The knock comes again, harder than before, and Bernadetta knows exactly who it is.

“Bernadetta, Theo?” It’s her father’s voice, low and annoyed. “Come out now. We have to discuss something over lunch.”

The mannequin falls backwards into a pile of laundry, but Bernadetta slams the closet doors shut, not bothering to fix it. She calls back, “I— I was just going to have lunch in my room.”

“Unacceptable. Both of you come down to the dining room now, or I will be very upset.”

“Don’t get so worked up, Amadeus.” There’s a snap in Theo’s voice; she’s only ever heard him talk that way to her father. “We’ll be down to appease you shortly.”

On the other side of the door, her father huffs. Bernadetta holds her breath, hands still firmly pressed to her closet, listening to his steps as they trail away from her room and down the stairs. She exhales when Theo puts a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s a nice dress, Bernie,” he tells her, “and I’m certain you’ll look very nice in it. But speaking of clothes, do you think you should go down to lunch like that? Your father might… lecture you about it.”

She looks down at herself, chewing the inside of her cheek. She’s dressed in leggings, a short gray dress, and a soft cardigan. It’s comfortably for sure, but definitely not the fanciest. Under normal circumstances, she’d change, but— “It won't make any difference.”

* * *

* * *

Bernadetta hates being right.

“Another rejected proposal.” Amadeus folds a letter in his hands, sliding his fingers over the crease until it’s flat. He looks at her with cold eyes, lips curled. “Bernadetta, what have you to say for yourself?”

She slumps down into the dining room chair, bottom lip between her teeth as she pushes her food around. What is she supposed to say? Sorry that she’s 17 and scared of other people? That it kinda makes it hard to present herself as the “perfect wife” to a 30-year-old man? It’s absolutely not what she should say. She doesn’t fancy the idea of being forced to practice her etiquette all evening.

“Amadeus, don’t be so hard on her.” Bernadetta’s mother extends a hand from her side of the table. Though her words are even, the look on her face is a touch exasperated. “He was far too old for her.”

“Age doesn’t matter, Agna. Bernadetta is finally of marriageable age, and yet, she refuses to act like it.” Amadeus stares Bernadetta down from across the long dining table, visibly frustrated. “One would think she doesn’t want to marry.”

Uncle Theo speaks up then, not even looking up from his food. “She doesn’t.”

“Nobody asked you, Theo!”

“I assumed that I, as family, was part of this family discussion.”

Agna sighs and shoots Bernadetta a look as they bicker, rolling her eyes as if to say, “Brothers.” Her sharp green eyes then bore into Bernadetta, as if studying her. Her mother’s beauty has always intimidated her, if only because she’s everything Bernadetta is not: tall, slender, with intelligent eyes and jet-black hair. Bernadetta wishes she looked more like her mother than her father, but she guesses she should just be grateful she looks more like Theo than anyone else.

“Bernadetta!”

She snaps to attention, fingers clenched painfully tight around her fork as her father calls her name. “Yes!”

“Lord Freugel described you as ‘unattractive’ and ‘standoffish.’ You must work to remedy that.”

Remedy that? How does she fix the way she looks? She can’t just slim down in a heartbeat while simultaneously growing a huge set of breasts like every man she’s been forced to meet wants. She guesses she can fix being “standoffish” by smiling more or something, but the thought of smiling at someone she doesn’t like causes her heart to start racing. Can she improve anything at all?

“Bernadetta, don’t just sit there in your own head. What do you have to say for yourself?” her father demands.

“U—um, I—”

Amadeus doesn’t wait for her response. He buries his face in a hand and sighs, waving his other through the air. “We’ll get you on a stricter beauty routine. Face masks, better soaps, cold water, more makeup. And we’ll double your etiquette lessons.”

Oh, no.

“N—no, that’s not necessary! I know my etiquette, Father, I promise.” No etiquette lessons, please, please. “I was just having an off day, I swear.”

“If you truly knew your etiquette, Bernadetta,” he says, “you would not have ‘off days.’ A proper wife knows better than to have ‘off days.’” He sighs, again. “I was hoping you’d have matured into a better specimen since your childhood years, but it seems there’s still much to teach you.”

Specimen. He talks about her like she’s a little _ thing _ in a glass box. A thing to be poked and prodded at. Perhaps it really is suitable for her.

* * *

* * *

Bernadetta remembers distinctly the first time she ever had an etiquette lesson. She must have been six or seven, unafraid of her parents or the world outside of her room. Her father had never given her reason to fear him; he’d spoiled her before then. She got pretty dresses and tasty treats, and there was scarcely a day she wasn’t lavished with all of his affections. To this day, she doesn’t know what changed him, or if he even did. Maybe he was always like this.

The first time he’d sat her in a chair and told her to be quiet, it was a game. _ Sit there, my little bear, perfectly still and quiet like a good girl. _ She’d giggled behind her hands before quieting down, and it lasted all of ten minutes. They played the game the next day, then the next week, until they had a set schedule. As time passed, it became less of a game. She would sit in the chair for longer, had to keep her hands in her lap, and if she so much as whimpered, he would shush her and give her a literal slap on her wrist.

The game only got worse as she grew, until one day she realized: it wasn’t a game. Her father’s talk about sitting still and being quiet was not his weird idea of fun, but rather a lesson. _ Sit there, _ he would tell her. _ This is how your future husband wants his wife to be. _

Perfectly still and quiet. Demure and polite.

Submissive.

The first time he’d tied her to a chair, she’d been ten. He had dragged her kicking and screaming out of her room. She’d refused to sit in the chair, standing defiantly with crossed arms every time he pushed her down into it. Bernadetta remembers his grimace, his fingers tangled in his hair, the coil of thick rope a servant brought to him. She remembers crying as he bound her to the chair.

“I know it is harsh, little bear,” he had said. “But this is what happens when you cannot behave. Cry if you must, but I won’t excuse it the next time.”

The slaps on the wrist got worse. Her skin still stings when she thinks about it. His punishing fingers turned to a wooden rod, leaving behind welts rather than just soreness. If she cried and complained enough, he’d sometimes strike her on her shoulder, against her stomach, over her thigh. Never her face, though. She had people to meet and boys to impress, and it would never do to have a mark on her cheek.

“He does it for your own good,” her mother would — and still does — say. “Don’t judge him too harshly, Bernadetta. It’s simply necessary that you marry well, and he’s ensuring that happens.”

Bernadetta doesn’t have to like what’s necessary.

She doesn’t like it now, when Amadeus takes her into the parlor and sits her down in a chair, hands harsh on her shoulders. It takes every fiber of her being to fight against the urge to tremble. She is certain that her lips are wobbling, based on the way he rolls his eyes. It won’t do her any good to focus on what he’s doing, so she turns her eyes towards the window and focuses on gripping to a shred of calm. Her father coils rope around her body, binding her arms firmly at her sides. The knot he secures is tighter than normal; she winces when he isn’t looking.

“Now.” Amadeus pats her shoulder before taking a seat across from her. “Look me in the eyes.”

She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t like doing that.

“Now, Bernadetta, or I will become upset.”

She turns her eyes towards him, praying he doesn’t notice how she’s wriggling her arms.

“Put your hands in your lap, just as you’ve been taught.”

Bernadetta can hear her heart in her ears, but she obeys. It takes a bit of squirming to move her upper arms the way she needs, but she manages to fold her hands in her lap. Demure, polite, submissive.

“What do you suppose you should do next?” Amadeus extends a hand, as though he is a tutor beckoning her to answer a question. “Think back to our conversation at lunch.”

“I— I should…” She racks her brain, but the memory of lunch is foggy. She remembers Theo and Amadeus bickering, Agna looking at her, something about Lord Freugel’s letter. “Lord Freugel said I was ‘unattractive’ and ‘standoffish,’ so I should… smile?”

Her father looks pleased. Her stomach flutters at the thought of pleasing him and getting out of this chair quicker. “Excellent. When a suitor is speaking with you, make eye contact and smile. Nod when you must, but not too much. There is a delicate balance to pleasing your callers, Bernadetta.”

Over half of her life spent practicing, and she still can’t get any of this right. She should be a master at laughing and saying, “Oh, my lord, how clever you are! Do tell me more about those dreadful commoners you tormented at the bar last night!”

Just thinking about saying that makes her want to cry.

“Stop shaking and tell me…” Amadeus pauses, as though thinking of a proper question. “Tell me what you would say in response to a suitor telling you that he enjoys recreational hunting. This is simple.”

Bernadetta chews the inside of her lip, runs her tongue over the roof of her mouth. Her knee starts to jitter, but that’s not polite, demure, submissive. She stops it from jumping too much and focuses on keeping calm. “I would ask what game he likes to hunt… right?” Before he can reply, she tacks on, “And— and ask what the largest animal he’s caught is?”

“Splendid, little bear. You’re precisely right.” Amadeus is smiling, his face relaxed and nothing like it was at lunch. “And now, let’s move onto a different topic. How would—”

Without any warning, the door to the parlor flies open. Bernadetta shrieks. Her father’s face goes pink as Theo shouts, “What in the world are you doing?”

It’s just her uncle, but she can’t stop her heart from racing faster and faster. Bernadetta loses her hold on the composure she was keeping such a careful grip on, and now she can’t stop from breathing too heavily and too much. Her stomach starts to hurt. The back of her neck is sweating. Her head feels so light and fuzzy, and the sound of her father and uncle shouting is both distant and too close.

“I thought you’d stopped doing this!”

“For a time, yes. But now that we’re searching for a suitor again, it’s important to refresh her memory and help her with her etiquette.”

“This is barbaric.” There are hands on her back, pulling at the knotted rope. Bernadetta keeps squirming and panting as the room spins. “Look at what you’ve done to her! She’s a mess, Amadeus!”

Is she?

Her father shouts, “Don’t untie that rope, Theo, or I will—”

The rope goes slack around Bernadetta. Relief courses through her, and with a gasp, she lunges from the chair. Her knees knock against the coffee table, but Theo’s hand on her elbow keeps her from going sprawling. She gasps, struggling against wheezing breaths, and finds her footing.

“Go to your room, Bernadetta,” her uncle says. “Your father and I are going to talk.”

Room. Yes, her room. Finally.

On unsteady legs, Bernadetta shuffles past her father, who doesn’t bother to grab her or pay her mind as she passes. Quietly, she exits the parlor. A maid walking by gives Bernadetta a pitying glance, but doesn’t speak. Even so, she can feel the maid’s eyes on her as she starts to climb the staircase. By the time she’s halfway up the stairs, the argument coming from the parlor is loud enough to echo through the hallways, up the stairs, and into Bernadetta’s room with her.

She rests a hand on her door and locks it. Her body quivers, but just the sight of her room is soothing her.

_ We gotta get it together, Bernie. _

The words are indecipherable through the floor, but Bernadetta can still hear Theo and Amadeus going at it as she sits at her desk. She clicks her tongue mindlessly as she pulls a piece of parchment from her stack and draws her quill. Her head is starting to clear up; her heart is slowing down. Her stomach hurts, but she’s fine. She’s in her room, and she’ll be fine until her father decides he needs to speak with her. Inside her room, she is safe and secure, and she should enjoy it.

Writing should take her mind off of things. There’s no better way to escape the ruckus downstairs than to lose herself in a story. Bernadetta tugs on her bangs for a moment, chews her lip, and then puts her quill to parchment. The scratching of her quill drowns out the shouting.

_ Within the heart of a bustling city, there once dwelled a songstress by the name of Edith. Edith was a bold young woman with a thirst for the more exciting things in life, but lived her days in relative solitude, kept isolated from the vibrant city by the order of a wicked Warlock. Years and years before, the Warlock had been the head servant of Edith’s household. But he one day revealed his treacherous nature and killed her parents, leaving him in charge of the house’s affairs until Edith came of age. _

_ With a careful hand, he nurtured Edith’s talents and used them for his own gain, all while showing the surrounding city the clever facade of a kind and proper gentleman, charitably raising the daughter of his deceased masters long past their murders. In private, he would force Edith to sing day and night, until there was no flaw with her voice. At parties which she was not allowed to partake in, the Warlock would have her perform song after song for his equally-wicked guests — Edith was no more than the Warlock’s songbird, locked up in a beautiful silver cage where she would hopefully catch the eye of a nobleman seeking to marry her, whose fortune and life the Warlock would then steal. _

As soon as she stops writing, the argument floods her ears again. It’s giving her a headache. Grimacing, she picks up her paper and reads over what she’s written, unable to decide if she’s satisfied or horrified. It’s too on the nose. Too extrapolatory. Edith’s backstory can’t be laid out in the first two paragraphs; it must be woven deftly into the early narrative. Even so, Bernadetta likes the change in the setting, and she now knows why Edith is trapped and who has trapped her.

Bernadetta has a protagonist and an antagonist, and thus the fixings of an okay story. More than that, she has an escape from the screams below her. She keeps writing page after page, long after the shouting has stopped.

* * *

* * *

“Where’s Uncle Theo?” Bernadetta asks at breakfast the next day. Another meal she’s forced to attend, and her uncle isn’t even here to ease the sting of being pulled from her room.

Amadeus doesn’t respond. He keeps his head down as he cuts into his meal.

Agna looks at him, perhaps uncertain, and then at Bernadetta. “Your uncle decided to pay a visit to Count Bergliez in the county over. It’s only proper for a student to continue to pay respects to their master, don’t you think?”

“Uh, I guess?” Bernadetta looks down at her ham and eggs, which actually look very appetizing, but not eager to stay settled in her stomach. “Is he, um… coming back?”

A hard sound echoes in the room as Amadeus places his cutlery against his plate. Bernadetta flinches back, but the anger in his eyes isn’t for her right now. Even so, it’s certainly there, and it’s more than obvious why it’s burning so strongly: there’s a sizable yellow bruise on his jaw. “In a couple of weeks, maybe. Now, eat your breakfast. I have work to do, so we won’t be going over any etiquette today.”

_ Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Happy day, Bernie! _

“Agna, why did you even have her leave her room?”

Bernadetta’s heart stumbles. Her mother rarely makes her leave her room, unless she wants her to go shopping with her, or give her lessons on why nobles should always be prim and proper, never _ ever _ sinking to the level of commoners. And so, wary, she watches her mother set down her knife and fork, a pleased smile on her pink lips.

“I had a feeling that things wouldn’t work out with Lord Freugel,” Agna starts. “And I wouldn’t have settled for it anyway. He wasn’t rich enough to excuse the years between him and Bernadetta. So I took it upon myself to find another, more appropriate suitor for our little bear.”

“You didn’t have to do that!” Bernadetta exclaims. Her heart is thumping against her ribs, and she can’t fathom why her mother is doing this to her. Why can’t they just leave her alone? It’s been suitor after suitor since she turned sixteen, and she just wishes they’d leave her alone again. She wasn’t bothering anyone in her room. She wasn’t an eyesore. She was happy.

“Would you rather your father find you an even older suitor this time?” Agna’s voice is amused despite the insulted look Amadeus gives her. “I was more than happy to do it.”

“You really found another suitor?” he asks. “Who in Fódlan could you possibly have found that I didn’t? I’ve asked every family in Adrestia with a son Bernadetta’s age if they’d be interested in a marriage, and—”

Agna holds up a finger. “You have asked every family, provided that they were of equal or lower status than us.”

_ Oh, no. No, no, no, nope. Bad day, Bernie. _

“I reached out to an acquaintance.” Agna gives a disdainful sniff. “I certainly had to swallow my pride, given the company she keeps. She mingles with commoners, you see.”

“And she’s from a family more powerful than us? Shameful.”

Bernadetta almost asks, “What’s so wrong with commoners?” But she knows better than to speak.

“Regardless, she has a son that she says would love to meet Bernadetta!” Agna laces her fingers together, smiling at Bernadetta. She looks as pleased as a cat who just caught a mouse. “Isn’t that nice, little cub?”

Bernadetta smiles back.

No, it’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading the first chapter!! i'll do my best to get the second one out relatively soon, but school is in session and i have an online class i haven't even started yet (lol) so pls be understanding! i've got the whole fic outlined so hopefully im able to write a little faster than i normally would since i've got a good idea where things are going and such
> 
> also if you're interested, you can find me on twitter @rigeIians (the "L" is actually an uppercase "i"). im not on it as much as i used to be but i still post WIPs and memes and such occasionally and im Constantly talking abt tatizeke, so if you're into that. you've found the right place


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [throws up a peace sign as im cryign] hey guys haha what's up
> 
> it's just a couple of weeks now until the semester is over and im. Overwhelmed with my shifts at work + final projects and exams and all that so im pretty burnt out with writing atm and like. Stuff. is happening. so if this chapter is written a little sloppily, i hope you'll excuse me. i'll probably come back at some point and polish it up, most likely when i publish the next chapter, so i'll let y'all know if that's what i do. even so i hope you guys get some enjoyment from it!
> 
> also i neglected to mention in the first chapter that this is kinda a semi-au setting lol. it's fódlan as we know it with the Crest system and all that, but there are a couple of key differences, being:  
a) the Officers Academy doesn't exist in this timeline;  
b) the war with brigid and dagda is carrying on a lot longer; and  
c) those who slither in the dark were wiped out during the war with Nemesis, so no Fuckery is happening. it's not particularly relevant to the story, but things like the tragedy of duscur never happened, lysithea and edelgard are both unharmed and their siblings are alive, etc. etc. etc.
> 
> other than that, most everything is the same i think?? anyway. have fun with the chapter, and if you're also going through finals and exams and such, i hope you do well and are able to get through it! remember: ferdinand von aegir would want you to study and do your work in a timely fashion

**Duchy of Aegir**

**Day 28 of the Wyvern Moon, Imperial Year 1180**

Two lunges back. Dodge. Dodge. Block, parry—

Ferdinand lunges forward, foil outstretched. The opponent in front of him, face concealed with a fencing mask, draws back their own sword and steps away. He watches their hand as it spins, swinging the sword in a small arc to meet his own. A parry, but a weak one; he’s caught his opponent too off-guard, and when their foil meets his own, it bounces off. Ferdinand readjusts his feet on the sand beneath, finds a grip, and makes another thrust.

His opponent grunts with discomfort as his foil prods them on their head. The fight stops near instantly. Ferdinand waits until his opponent as lifted a hand, indicating they are okay, before he draws his foil back to his side. Again he waits, as is polite, as they drag their fencing mask up and over their head. Their expression is disgruntled and irritated, but their loss can only be expected. Ferdinand has not lost a fencing match in months, and he isn’t about to start now.

“I was going easy on you,” his opponent comments, but there’s an amused lilt to their voice. They’re only teasing. “I’ll win someday, Lord Ferdinand.”

Under his own mask, Ferdinand smiles. He sticks his hand out to his opponent for a shake. “Do not get your hopes up. I never lose.”

“I seem to distinctly recall you losing to Princess Edelgard multiple times in the past.”

Ferdinand’s smile drops; he’s glad they can’t see. “That will not happen again.”

“Do not get your hopes up,” his opponent mimes, laughing as they walk off towards the equipment shed.

“It will not happen again,” Ferdinand repeats in a mumble. With the training yard now empty, he sighs and pulls up the edge of his mask. His hair is matted and sticking to his forehead. Grimacing, he tucks his mask under an arm and drags his fingers through his hair, working out the kinks and tangles and brushing away sweat. The air is fortunately chill, cooling him down quickly.

“Oh, Ferdie!”

Edelgard vanishes from his mind in an instant at the sound of his mother’s voice. He smiles, still idly fixing his hair with one hand, and turns towards the loggia his mother is coming from. Her skirts are bunched up in her hand to keep them out of the sand. Today, her clothing is fairly lowkey — a blouse tucked into a vibrant red skirt — in comparison to her normal attire. She must have been in town for the day, rather than cooped up in her private room and handling finances.

“Mother,” he greets. “How do you fare today?”

“Perfectly well.” She stops in front of him, looking him up and down, and crinkles her nose. Her long fingers reach for his forehead, and Ferdinand squeezes his eyes shut as she fusses over his sweaty brow and hair. “Dear me, you’re so sweaty! I think I have a handkerchief in my pocket, hold on.”

“I just finished my fencing practice,” he explains, eyes still shut as she pats a silk handkerchief against his brow. “Mother, stop! I am 18 now, you do not need to fuss!”

“Hold on, I just gotta get the sweat over here, aaaaand…” His mother makes a triumphant sound; he opens his eyes. She looks pleased, hands on her hips and a smile on her face. His brow certainly is dry now, and his hair is fixed. “Now you’re so handsome!”

“Thank you,” he mumbles. “And what brings you out to the training yard?”

“I have some news for you.” She follows him to the equipment shed, smiling and nodding at his opponent as they leave it. They stop, bow, politely acknowledge her with, “Lady Juniper, you are splendid today.” She waves at them as they go, her smile unceasing, and waits for Ferdinand at the entrance to the shed while he puts away his equipment and gear. “Exciting news.”

“And what would that exciting news be, Mother?”

“Well, today I received a letter from Agna von Varley. Have you met her?”

Ferdinand removes his fencing gloves, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to recall an Agna von Varley. He doesn’t remember ever talking to her, but thinks he remembers seeing her at a ball in Enbarr when he was about 15 or 16. He recalls her being a great beauty: tall, elegant, slender, with silky black hair and sharp eyes. She’s a prominent magistrate, known for being fair and adhering to every rule in the book.

Ferdinand also remembers that she refuses to extend her services to the common people.

“I do recall Countess Varley. I did not know that the two of you were friends, though.”

Juniper scrunches up her nose again, waving her hand dismissively. “On the contrary, I can hardly stand the woman. She feels like she’s so much better than me, just because she’s got a fancy job and comes from a higher-class family, and she always makes backhanded comments! Well, at least I’m  _ nice.” _

He smiles. “That you are, Mother.”

“In any case.” Juniper follows him, scrounging around her skirt pocket for something. He really hopes that she doesn’t follow him into the bathing house, like she accidentally has so many times before. She really needs to focus on where it is she’s going. “I have the letter here somewhere… Aha!” She pulls out a piece of parchment, folded neatly into squares, and opens it up. “Agna and her husband, Amadeus, are seeking a husband for their daughter.”

Ferdinand pauses on the steps leading up to the loggia, his hand swiping over his brow. “They are trying to marry her off?”

Juniper walks past him, fanning herself with the letter and sighing. “You know that’s how it goes in our society, Ferdinand von Aegir. Political marriages and all that. Miss Bernadetta von Varley is certainly old enough that it’s not unnerving to see her forced into a marriage, though still… she is but eight months your junior.”

“She must only be 17!”

“It could be worse. I was engaged to your father when I was 16, you know. Though our engagement did last a while.” She shakes her head and leans against a pillar, idly playing with a loose strand of her honey-colored hair. “I think I met Miss Varley once before. She certainly was a jittery little thing. I said hello to her, and wouldn’t you know it, she screamed! I hear it’s normal for her, but…” Juniper bites her lip. “That Amadeus loves his money. I just hope he’s done nothing too awful to the girl to prepare her for marriage.”

Ferdinand starts his walk towards the bathing house again. His stomach is turning now; he hopes a bath will help relax him. “And Count Varley wishes for me to marry his daughter, yes?”

“Undoubtedly due to our status, of course. Knowing the man, I don’t think he has any intentions of finding a truly compatible husband for Miss Varley.”

Ferdinand ducks his head, chin in a hand, and tries to wrap his brain around the offer. His parents have spoken of arranging engagements before, but never followed through with them. It’s not particularly important for him to marry at this point in his life, as there is really no higher status that he could marry into and benefit from, save for a partnership with Edelgard or one of her siblings. His father has suggested such an arrangement a few times, but nothing has ever come of it.

The last time anyone suggested a marriage to Ferdinand had to be when he was 15, and he’d thought nothing of it then. But now, he’s an adult. Marriageable age. The thought of getting married discomforts him regardless, especially now that the possibility of it feels very real, and potentially very close. He can’t imagine being married — the thought of sharing his bed is uncomfortable. The thought of sharing everything is uncomfortable. When he thinks of marriage, he feels more like a child than a man.

“Ferdinand.” Juniper takes his elbow and draws him into the shadow of a pillar, her face suddenly tense. She looks over her shoulder, as though fearful, and lowers her voice. “It’s old-fashioned, but a spouse can improve your standing in the eyes of the court.”

All of the worry in his stomach disappears. “You think so?”

“Unfortunately, yes. So, you may want to consider it, given… our circumstances. Of course, I’m not saying you  _ have _ to marry the girl, Ferdie. But she seems nice, and I’m told she’s well-educated and very talented in the arts. Maybe consider meeting her. You might make a friend, if nothing else.”

Respectability. Credibility. Higher standing. A foot in the door, so to speak, a way to help him climb the ladder even faster. Ferdinand has to admit that it’s appealing, and he needs as many feet in the door as he can possibly manage.

Juniper glances over his shoulder as he is thinking, and her eyes darken. She pinches the front of Ferdinand’s arm to get his attention, hissing, “Mind yourself now, Ferdie.”

His stomach plummets to the ground as, from behind him, he hears his father say, “Now, what are you two up to?”

“Father.” Ferdinand swallows, acutely aware of his disheveled and improper dress. Even so, he turns to his father and bows, fist to his chest. “My mother and I were discussing a marriage prospect.”

His father is flanked by two retainers, both of whom are standing at a proper distance with their heads bowed, hands on their swords. Recently, Ferdinand has rarely seen his father without armed guards, but doesn’t know why. He doesn’t ask, because he knows his father won’t tell. He’s a man of secrets — too many, were one to ask Ferdinand.

Juniper takes a step back and dips into a half-curtsy, eyes closed and head lowered, greeting him with a polite, “Lord Ulysse.” There is nothing in her posture or expression that would suggest fondness or affection. Ferdinand has never seen her look at his father warmly, and just that reminder chills his stomach even further. What if he does marry and it ends up like his parents?

His father’s eyebrows shoot up and he smiles, as though giddy. “From who?”

“House Varley,” Ferdinand extends a hand towards his mother and takes the letter she offers. Again she curtsies before departing, unable to escape the situation fast enough it seems. He passes the letter over to Ulysse. “My mother received that from Countess Varley today.”

Ulysse hums as he opens the letter, his small eyes squinted as he reads. Ferdinand waits, growing more and more embarrassed with his appearance each second, but knows he isn’t excused. He waits for his father to finish reading the letter and wishes Juniper hadn’t left him to deal with Ulysse alone, immediately after their conversation.

He feels guilty looking at his father right now.

“House Varley.” Ulysse hands the letter back to Ferdinand. He smooths a finger over his mustache as he thinks. “Yes, that is suitable. Their daughter bears a Crest. Did you know?”

“I did not, Father.”

“A Minor Crest of Indech. Very prestigious. She’d be a good soldier, if the army ever needed her.”

There are tales in the history books of heroes who bore the Crest of Indech — warriors and soldiers with unmatched stamina and strength, able to keep fighting long after the rest of their battalions retreated. There are stories that toe the line between reality and fiction that tell of these heroes fending off foreign invaders all on their own, fighting throughout the day and well into the long nights. House Varley, as far as Ferdinand can recall from his studies, has produced no such soldier in more than a couple of centuries. Though even if he doesn’t bear a Crest, Sir Theo von Varley is quite renowned.

What Ferdinand wouldn’t give to face off against a swordsman of his caliber.

“I, uh, suppose so.” Ferdinand looks back towards the training yard in the distance, wishing he was still fencing without a care in the world. “I must admit marriage is not on my mind, Father. The war with Brigid and Dagda is only getting worse, and I must be prepared for—”

Ulysse snorts. “‘Prepared?’ For what? No one will be drafting my boy into any wretched war against those savages. All you need to do is keep on with your studies, Ferdinand, and focus on being the best you can be.” He then gives Ferdinand an up-and-down before rolling his eyes. “Now go bathe, boy. You look like you just clambered out of a gutter.”

Ferdinand blushes and touches his bangs, sputtering an apology as he bows to his departing father.

* * *

* * *

“So what did your father have to say about the Varley’s letter, Ferdie?”

Ferdinand plants his boots on the bottom of the stone railing he’s perched upon, gazing out at the city of Scilla and the ocean below. Elbows on his knees, he leans forward; the orange sunset washes over the balcony of his mother’s private parlor. Still damp from his bath, his hair is mussed and his blouse stuck uncomfortably to his arms. Behind him, his mother is fiddling with a tray of tea at the small table. He opens his eyes again and looks down at the rows and rows of buildings in the city, wondering just what the people inhabiting them are up to.

Are any of them struggling with what he is?

“He was pleased, to say the least.” Ferdinand braces one hand on the stone and twists around to grab a flatbread his mother offers him. She chides him softly, warning, “You’re going to fall and plummet to your doom if you keep sitting there!” but he ignores her. Though hungry after his fencing earlier, he only half-heartedly nibbles on his food. “Of course he already knew that she has a Crest.”

“Crests, Crests, Crests.” Juniper uses her hand to mime a person speaking, rolling her eyes as she does so. “That’s all anyone cares about, I swear. I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t been snatched up yet if her parents are so eager to marry her off. Surely someone would want her Crest.”

“Perhaps it is best for her that she has not been married to someone that only has eyes for a Crest.”

“Too true.” Juniper swirls her tea around her cup, sighing as she looks into it. “And have you decided what you are going to do? I imagine that Agna and Amadeus will not want to wait forever.”

What Ferdinand would truly like to do is not worry about the proposal. There’s a war waging, people dying. It seems as though every time he is in Enbarr, there are funerals being held at the palace for fallen knights. He’s heard that Caspar von Bergliez has enlisted. Edelgard and Hubert are preparing to be shipped out to fight as well. Linhardt’s father is forcing him to go and be a field medic. There are so many more important things going on than the Varleys desperate pleas, but… they have offered him an opportunity he can’t refuse. The opportunity to be seen as more than he really is.

The opportunity to possibly claim the position of Duke Aegir sooner.

“Mother, do you believe that all arranged marriages are to end with— with misery and dislike?” Ferdinand asks. “The only frame of reference I have are you and my father, and you can hardly look him in the eye.”

Juniper lowers her cup from her lips, appearing pensive as she dabs at the edge of her lipstick. “I suppose it depends. I can hardly stand your father because he’s a greedy pig, but—”

“Do not hold anything back, Mother.”

“But you’re a kind and generous boy, Ferdie,” she continues. “And Miss Varley seems like a kind girl, if not… withdrawn. Things don’t  _ have _ to end badly.”

Maybe his mother is right. Maybe it could be fine. Maybe he and Miss Varley will even like each other. He doesn’t expect anything like love, but if they were even just friends, that would be nice. And, he doesn’t  _ have _ to marry her. All anyone is asking him to do is meet the girl. It couldn’t hurt.

And maybe he could help her, somehow, marriage or not. Being forced to endure an unending cycle or suitors sounds like no fun.

Ferdinand picks up his teacup, though the meal in front of him still doesn’t seem like it’ll stay settled in his anxious stomach. “If you write back to Countess Varley, you may let her know that I would love to meet her daughter.”

Juniper’s eyes round out. “Now Ferdinand, you truly don’t have to—”

“Tea together will not hurt. Like you said, I could make a friend of Miss Varley if nothing else.” He turns his eyes back to the golden sunset and the sea. “What sort of gift would be appropriate to bring her?”

“Oh my, I really have raised you quite well!”

* * *

* * *

**Duchy of Aegir**

**Day 20 of the Lone Moon, Imperial Year 1174**

There isn’t anyone in Adrestia more powerful than Ferdinand’s father — at least, that’s what Father says, always with his chest puffed out and a smile on his face. It’s obvious, everywhere Ferdinand looks, that what his father says is the truth. Aegir is the richest territory in Adrestia. The people are happy. Everyone is always smiling, especially when put in contrast to Enbarr where people always look stressed and haggard.

Ulysse is in Enbarr so frequently, always making important decisions for the empire. It’s been a while since Ferdinand was last allowed to attend a meeting with him, but he distinctly recalls how everyone fell silent when his father spoke, offering their utmost respect. No one, not even the emperor, had anything to say in objection to the suggestions his father made. He remembers the confidence in his father’s voice and posture; remembers wanting to be just like that when he got older.

Ferdinand has big shoes to fill, and even at 12, he is acutely aware of this. There’s really no other way to be, given that his days are filled with constant studying, constant lessons, constant reminders that it’s all for the sake of making him into the perfect Duke Aegir. Perfection is the goal, and he can’t slip up.

He admires his father, more than anyone else. It must be hard to be the central figure in the government, but Ulysse handles it so well and with so much grace. He’s always in meetings, and always out checking on his territories as well. Ferdinand’s father is burdened with responsibility, and yet still finds time to be there for Ferdinand almost always. He’s there for birthdays and holidays, for his recitals and his most important lessons.

Ferdinand wants to be perfect. He wants to fill in those shoes. He wants to be responsible and respected. He wants to be like his father.

With his days filled with with tutors and lessons and etiquette, sometimes Ferdinand just wants to walk around the halls without being ushered from place to place by governesses and teachers, or without being bowed to by servants who are too nervous to look him in the eye. Early morning walks are a peaceful reprieve: blessed time to himself.

He says they’re a reprieve, but he absolutely shouldn’t be out of bed at this time. There’s no one to stop him, though. He wanders the halls of the manor, dragging his fingertips over the walls and the banisters of the stairways. Most likely he’ll be tired during his government lessons in the morning, but it’s no matter. The walk is coming to an end, and now it’s just a quick walk up the staircase to his room. He’ll be in bed, no one will ever know he was wandering, and—

Just as he sets his hand on the staircase railing, there’s the sharp, grating sound of a chair against a wooden floor.

“There’s no need to keep being so damn stubborn!”

Ferdinand pauses, fingers curling around the banister. That’s his father’s voice, coming from a room a bit further down the hall. The door is just barely ajar, allowing a line of orange light to fall on the dark hallway. His father must be in a meeting, but it’s so early in the morning, and he’s never heard his father sound like that before. Sharp, annoyed. Mean.

A strangled cough follows on the heels of his father’s voice. “I w—won’t speak…”

Another voice: a woman’s. “Do you need me to persuade him any more, Duke Aegir?”

_ Go upstairs, Ferdinand, _ he tells himself.  _ Father is only having a meeting. Go upstairs. _

“Well, it seems we have no choice.” Ulysse sounds exasperated; his tongue clicks. “Can you keep him quiet, though? My son’s room is just on the floor above. You really had to pick this room to set up everything?”

The woman’s voice is even. “Apologies, but you did not leave me any instructions on where I could and couldn’t set up, my lord. I just picked the most convenient room.”

“Don’t lay the blame on me, or you won’t see so much as a copper passing between our hands!”

“I am sorry, Duke Aegir.”

Quietly, Ferdinand crouches down. With bated breath, he slinks quietly towards the door. His curiosity has gotten the better of him; he’ll just take a peek, see who his father is talking to, and then go back to bed. The opening of the door is facing Ferdinand, and he slips his fingers against the inside and carefully pushes it open, just until he can get a view of what’s going on in the room.

Inside he sees his father, arms crossed and a foot tapping. Standing nearby is a tall, thin woman dressed in all black. He doesn’t recognize her at all from the back, and he doesn’t recognize her from the front either when she turns. Ferdinand shrinks back from the door, waits a moment, but she doesn’t seem to have seen him. Instead of her footsteps, he hears the scrape of a chair over the floor again, followed by a cry.

The sound chills Ferdinand — he’s never heard a person sound like that before.

When he peeks into the room again, hands pulling anxiously at his nightclothes, he sees a third person. This one is a man, but he’s in a chair, and— and it looks like there’s rope around him. More concerning than that are the cries that keep pouring out of his mouth, the slump of his head, the visible bruises on his hands as they clench the chair’s arms. Ferdinand cannot figure out what it is that is causing this man to make such sounds until he sees the woman standing by the man, her hand against his shoulder.

Ferdinand squints, trying to figure out why her hand is making this man weep so, and then his stomach sinks.

It’s not the woman’s hand against the man’s shoulder, but a blade. She’s stabbing him.

And his father is doing nothing about it.

Ferdinand recoils — it’s pure fear that keeps him silent. He falls backwards on the soft carpet, hands pressed into the woven yarn, and squeezes his eyes shut as the man shrieks again.

“I told you to keep him quiet!”

“Yes, Duke Aegir.”

The man’s scream is muffled abruptly. Ferdinand can’t bear to look inside the room anymore, but he can imagine what’s happening: the woman, cold-eyed and efficient, pulling a handkerchief or loose article of clothing from her body, stuffing it in the man’s mouth— It’s horrible. His mind is racing, and he can’t get the image of the man’s bruised hands and spasming shoulder out of his mind. It feels as though this whole scenario has just traipsed out of a novel.

Why isn’t his father doing something? Why is he  _ telling _ this woman to do these things?

“Are you ready to talk?” His father’s voice is still cold and impatient.

The man is no longer screaming, but he takes an audible inhale of air as whatever was muffling him is removed. He coughs, his voice hoarse and thin. “I— I owe no words… to the likes of you!”

“Don’t be so stupid.” Ferdinand hears a smack, like someone has just grabbed someone else. “Just tell me what it is Ionius is up to. The rat has been oddly suspicious lately, skittering to and fro all over Enbarr.” There’s a pause. “Don’t tell me the old man is trying to usurp us, so soon after we stripped him of every scrap of power he had? Is  _ he _ stupid?”

Ionius. The emperor?

“The emperor… may just be your puppet now, Aegir, but he—” The man coughs again, a long and horrible sound, as though all the life in his body is trying to escape. “But he can still do and go where he p—pleases! Y—you take all of the power from him, and now you, what, want to confine him to his room?”

“If he keeps scampering around like he is, I just might. The old man needs to know” — There’s a smack from inside the room— “his” — Another, harsher than the last and followed by a cry — “place!”

“Duke Aegir.” The woman speaks again, so suddenly that Ferdinand jumps. He scrambles to his feet as she talks, breathing shallow, careful breaths as he gets his bearings. “Don’t dirty your hands by striking someone so far beneath you. Allow me to do the work you’re paying me for.”

Ulysse sneers. “His face was just pissing me off. You’re free to resume your work.”

“I’ll say nothing!” The man’s voice is suddenly stronger, angrier. “My lord Ionius has done nothing. Your paranoia is unbecoming, Aegir!”

“Do not speak to me like that!” Ferdinand flinches, taking another step back as he hears another smack. The man grunts loudly, but doesn’t make a sound beyond that. “He has to be up to something. I know Ionius, and he wouldn’t just— just lie down and die! Tell me what he’s up to, or I’ll—”

“Kill me?”

Ferdinand pauses, cold down to the marrow of his bones.

That can’t be his father in the room. It simply can’t be. His father is just and noble and fair, not anything like  _ that. _ His father isn’t violent. His father doesn’t raise his voice that way. His father doesn’t lay his hands on other people. His father has always been the very picture of nobility; not a lawless criminal, beating a man who’s already down.

His father doesn’t do that.

At least, not in front of Ferdinand.

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, it doesn’t seem like a half-bad idea.” Ulysse pauses; Ferdinand can hear his own heart in his ears. “You have one more opportunity to tell me what Ionius is up to. If you don’t, my hired help here will send your head back to him in a box.”

That’s his father’s voice, and Ferdinand feels sick.

“Do you think he’d like that? His most trusted retainer’s head, wrapped up like a holiday gift?”

All he wanted was to take a walk. How did he end up here? How did his  _ father _ end up here?

“Tell me right now, and I’ll make it worth your trouble. You escape with your life, and I’ll throw in as much gold as you can carry out of here, hm? Sound nice?”

Ferdinand turns and starts walking faster, back towards the stairs.

“Or would you rather die protecting a frail old man who didn’t even have the stones to resist me?”

Up the stairs, up the stairs, up the stairs—

“I’ll die before I betray my emperor. You wouldn’t understand, Aegir; you know nothing of loyalty or love.”

Ferdinand is halfway up the staircase, trembling so badly that he nearly falls backwards, but he swears he can still hear a dull, heavy thunk downstairs.

He’s shaking too badly to keep walking. His mother’s room is just a few doors down, and he’s so close to her. Surely, no matter what, his mother is still his mother.

Her voice calls out, “Wh—who is that!?” as soon as Ferdinand turns the doorknob. When he opens the door, Juniper is sitting up in bed, leaned away from the door with her hand to her chest, but she relaxes when she sees it’s him. Ferdinand still feels as though every hair on his body is standing on end, but the sight of his mother soothes him. Part of him had been worried, so worried that she wouldn’t be here. That maybe she would be somewhere else, making threats and hiring “help” of her own. But, she’s here.

Does she know about his father?

“Oh, Ferdie, it’s nearly four in the morning! And you’re waaaay too old to be coming into Mother’s room, you know that.” Juniper sighs, and he sees her outline turn. The oil lamp next to her bed flickers to life, and he sees her bleary, confused eyes, her rumpled honey-colored hair tangled over her shoulder. She looks so unassuming, unaware, but he must look anything but. Her lips turn into a frown and she tilts her head. “Ferdinand, what is it?”

He sucks in a breath and shuts the door behind him, hands behind his back as he looks down at the ground. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I— May I please stay in your room tonight?”

“You’re nearly thirteen now, Ferdie. Did you have a— a nightmare or such?” Juniper’s expression turns more amused than anything else. “Boys your age are usually disgusted at the concept of being tenderly comforted by their mothers, you know.”

What does he tell her? What can he say? Does he even know what he just saw?

“I, um…” Ferdinand keeps his eyes on the ground, heart pumping against his ribs. He can feel his jaw quivering and his eyes starting to burn, and he can’t help it. “Sorry, I just need to stay here.”

Silence, and then Juniper says, “I am always more than happy to distribute snuggles.”

His mother wraps her arms around him, soft and comforting, as soon as he climbs into her bed and presses his face into her shoulder. Her sweet breath stirs his hair, and he can’t remember the last time his mother felt so warm and safe. Ferdinand still feels sick and as though his heart is going to leap out of his mouth any second, but the sound of her heartbeat is soothing. He feels her cheek on top of his head, and her hands running up and down his back.

“What’s the matter?” she asks.

Ferdinand buries his face into her chest and shakes his head.

Juniper is silent, the tips of her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. And she stays silent, just holding him, and he gradually feels more tired than ever. Humming fills his ears, and he can feel the song vibrating in his mother’s chest. Exhausted, he slumps against her, and— and maybe what he saw  _ was _ just a bad dream. Maybe he’s been reading too many novels lately. Maybe he misunderstood what he saw. Maybe everything really is fine and that man still has his head on his shoulders.

And then his mother says, voice wobbling and hesitant: “You saw him do something awful. Didn’t you?”

Ferdinand’s heart plummets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you're ferdinand von aegir and you lose all faith and trust in your father at the tender age of 12 because you realize he's actually The Worst and now you probably have some Trauma
> 
> thanks for reading to the end, and i hope you all have a good day and are able to do the things you need to do. remember to be kind to each other and to yourselves!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i was eating soup dumplings while i did final edits on this chapter and a tiny splash of soup got on my trackpad and now my trackpad is totally broken and my keyboard is acting up too. :)
> 
> sorry for the months that went on between the update, i've just felt really self-conscious about this fic due to some circumstances and i've been considering deleting it, but for now, i think it's okay. this isn't a very eventful chapter, but it's about all i feel i can manage right now due to writer's block and school and work

_ “Do you find yourself displeased with my voice?” Edith blinked up at the Warlock, dismayed at the fury plain in his eyes. “I have been practicing, day and night, all in the hopes of pleasing you.” _

_ The Warlock hissed: it was a violent and wretched sound. “We’ll never find you a suitor unless you are perfect! What kind of man would settle for  _ you _ if you are any less?” _

_ Edith’s stomach turned, and she faced the very real possibility of being sick then and there, right on the carpet. All these years later, and she was still not good enough. _

_ Would she ever be good enough? _

* * *

* * *

**County of Varley**

**Day 22 of the Red Wolf Moon, Imperial Year 1180**

“Ferdinand von Aegir, huh?”

Bernadetta stops humming. Her quill stops scratching. She deposits the quill in her inkwell and turns in her seat to face her uncle, who is kneeling on the ground and bent over her nearly-finished dress. There’s an embroidery needle in his hand, chalk outlines on the skirts, and a focused look on his face. When he’s like this, dressed down in trousers and an apron, it’s hard for Bernadetta to imagine that the mere mention of her uncle’s name is enough to make many a person tremble in their boots. Theo looks quaint and gentle, and this is the only way she knows him.

“Yeah. I’ve got no clue who he is.” Bernie huffs and crosses her arms, slumped back in her chair. “I can’t believe  _ Mother _ was the one to do this to me.”

Theo hums, surveying her work. She hopes that the chalk outline she’s drawn is good enough for him to follow, and that he’s not having too much trouble with the paneling. He’s kind to help her with her project, though she feels a little guilty to have hoisted something so silly on him. She leaves her chair and sits on the floor next to him, watching as he gently tucks the needle into the fabric before pulling it back, visibly hesitant.

“I haven’t heard of this Ferdinand,” Theo begins, “but I have met his father a few times. He’s… a piece of work.”

Bernadetta tucks her cheeks into her hands and bites her lip. Great. Just great. Ferdinand von Aegir is going to be a weird, crusty dude who’s so much older than her, and now there’s also the possibility that he’s going to be a jerk like his father. In Bernadetta’s experience, sons are almost always like their fathers.

Theo again tucks the embroidery needle into the fabric. This time, he starts to sew, carefully and precisely along the lines she has sketched out. Bernadetta watches him work, mesmerized at the way his hands move so elegantly. She loves remembering the times in her childhood when he would hold her hands in his own, gently helping her ease the needle up and over the fabric, in and over the previous stitches, swiping away the blood whenever she pricked herself. What she wouldn’t give to go back to those simple times.

“And when are you supposed to meet Lord Ferdinand von Aegir?” Theo asks.

“Tomorrow.” Bernadetta nibbles at her bottom lip, doing her best to not consider what will happen if she fails another meeting. If she keeps failing, her father is going to label her unmarriageable again. He’ll act like she doesn’t exist. He might disown her, and then where would she go? To live with Uncle Theo, hiding away in Enbarr and praying her father never comes back to try and wring more use out of her?

That actually doesn’t sound too bad.

“Well then, let’s get this dress done for you. If you have to go to another one of those infernal things, you might as well wear something you like.” They remain quiet for a spell, and then Theo says, “And don’t worry, Bernie. Your mother has never allowed your father to marry you off to someone you didn’t like before. If you don’t like the boy, just say so; I’m certain this won’t be different from any other meeting, okay?”

Bernadetta stops chewing on her bottom lip when she feels a layer of skin starting to lift. Her father won’t be pleased if she has dry, peeling lips when she meets the heir of House Aegir. There are a lot of things that won’t please her father, including: “You should probably go soon, right? Father is going to be really, really upset if he knows you’re here, Uncle Theo.” She pauses. “And I feel bad that you keep sleeping in the gardening shed.”

Theo leans down and nips the embroidery floss with his teeth, effectively severing it. “It’s the only place your father absolutely won’t find me. A quilt and a pillow, and it’s not as uncomfortable as you might think. Besides, your Uncle Theo has slept in worse places, Bernie Bear.”

The image of her father’s bruised face burns in her mind. “Did you really hit him?”

A hum passes Theo’s lips while he finishes a seam. “Yeah.”

“He’s really gonna skin you alive if he finds you.”

“That would be a shame—I like my skin.” He sighs. “I’ll leave at first light tomorrow, and he’ll never know I was here.”

Bernadetta’s stomach sinks. She wishes he would take her with him.

* * *

* * *

In the morning, Bernadetta’s bath is just shy of freezing. She sits in the tub, shivering, as a maid rubs a sugar scrub over her chest and arms. Another maid is tending to her hair, massaging soap through her locks and pouring handfuls of water over her head. The washroom is completely silent, save for the sounds of water splashing from the tub and sloshing against the tile floors. Bernadetta hates these cold baths and scrubs, but she has to admit that her skin is smoother and her hair is glossier. She’d rather be warm than just-passably pretty, though.

The maids hardly ever speak to Bernadetta, but their hands are gentle. Their fingers are always delicate and mindful of her bruises. She doesn’t like being touched, but she supposes it’s better than her mother coming in and scrubbing her until her skin is raw.

“Finished,” the maid washing her hair announces. “Let me go get her a robe; Madeline, please be done before I’m back.”

Madeline nods and gives Bernadetta an apologetic look before starting to scrub harder and faster, in a manner more reminiscent of her mother’s style of washing. Bernadetta clenches her teeth and closes her eyes, wiggling her toes to try and keep feeling in them. She hopes the other maid comes back with a robe before she freezes to death in this goddess-forsaken bath.

The robe that the other maid wraps her in, once Madeline has dried her off and applied lotion to her, is nice and warm. Bernadetta doesn’t get time to enjoy it, though; they whisk her away back to her room, which would be  _ wonderful, _ were it not for her mother fiddling with various cosmetics at Bernadetta’s vanity, her nose scrunched up at the various projects laying around. The maids deliver Bernadetta, curtsy to Agna, and then shut the door behind them as they leave. Bernadetta clenches her hands into the collar of the robe, shivering.

“Sit down,” her mother instructs, an excited twinkle in her eye. “Oh, I love this part. You never let me do your makeup unless it’s to meet a suitor.”

Bernadetta wants to reply, “I’m not  _ letting _ you, you just force your way in,” but instead says, “Yeah, it’s fun.” She takes a seat in front of the vanity, shuddering as a thin stream of cold water slips down her spine. She fights the urge to chew on her lips. Agna hums as she observes Bernadetta’s face, nods to herself, and then reaches for a small jar of something-or-other.

“Let’s do subtle,” Agna says. “What are you going to wear?”

“M— That dress, right over there.” Bernadetta nods to her dress, finished only hours prior, hanging on her closet door. Knowing full-well her mother will refuse to let her wear it if she knows it’s homemade, she says, “Uncle Theo brought that for me when he came to visit. It’s, um, from Enbarr.”

She holds her breath as Agna observes it. For a second, she’s terrified that her mother is about to say, “That? That garbage?” and then she starts to think, oh, yes, it really  _ is _ garbage, and what is she thinking, wanting to wear it? The neckline is hideous, the waist is so obviously crooked, and the only part that’s acceptable is Theo’s embroidery on the skirt, and—

“So that’s what was in his parcel he was lugging around! What a lovely dress. I think it’ll do nicely.” Agna grabs Bernadetta’s chin and yanks her face towards her. Bernadetta grimaces as her mother starts to rub some kind of primer all over her face. “Let’s not tell your father it was a gift from your uncle, though.”

Between swipes of Agna’s fingers, Bernadetta mumbles, “Okay.”

Agna continues to slather makeup over Bernadetta’s face. Bernadetta doesn’t hate makeup—she actually likes it a fair amount. What she doesn’t like is someone touching her face, snapping at her to look up, look down, look left, pucker her lips. And it doesn’t look good on her anyway; there’s no makeup in the world capable of salvaging her pasty, dry skin and her dull eyes, and there’s no lip paint that can hide the little scratches on her lips from where she can’t stop gnawing on them. Makeup only serves to remind Bernadetta that she’s an ugly little gremlin, but it makes her mother happy to put it on her.

“Now, be kind to Lord Aegir,” Agna instructs. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

“He’s coming on his own, since Duke Aegir has business in the capital, and that mother of his can’t stand us.”

A mother who’s going to already hate Bernadetta? Yay.

“Lord Aegir is very intelligent and involved in his studies, so don’t be a bore, Bernadetta. Charm him, woo him, make yourself seem like…” Agna stops patting an eyeshadow onto Bernadetta’s eyelids, her lips twisted. “Like someone smarter. Alright?”

Bernadetta looks up at the ceiling as her mother starts to pull mascara through her bottom lashes. “Yes, Mother.”

“And—”

A knock at the door sends Bernadetta jumping into the air; her mother fortunately doesn’t have the mascara wand near her eye. The knocker doesn’t wait for permission before they come in, and Bernadetta squirms in her seat at the sight of her father. Amadeus shuts the door behind him, wordlessly scouring the room before his eyes fall on her. Her heart thumps in her chest, hard against her ribcage, and then he smiles.

_ Why is he smiling? What is he going to— _

“You look nice, Bernadetta,” he says. “Agna, you really are a miracle-worker.”

_ He’s complimenting you, Bernie. Smile, smile, smile! _

“Th—thank you, Father.” Bernadetta turns her eyes towards the vanity, studying her face. Her skin looks smoother, her eyes bigger, and the rouge that her mother is dabbing on her cheeks is making her look somewhat lively. Just somewhat, though. She still feels insignificant compared to her mother, whose reflection in the mirror is as stunning as always.

Amadeus pushes aside a stack of books with his foot before he sits in a chair. He crosses his legs and puts his hands in his lap. “Now, Bernadetta, you understand how important today is, yes?”

Bernadetta’s heart starts to beat faster still. She hates questions, she hates hates hates them. “Yes, sir.”

“Lord Aegir is the most prestigious marriage prospect available in Adrestia, save for one of the princes. Goddess knows I’d never present  _ you _ to them, though.” He tilts his chin up and looks at her, as though scrutinizing her for a weakness. “Don’t mess this up.”

Bernadetta’s feet start to tap against the floor, but she stops them. The look her father is giving her is unbearable; she shuts her eyes, grimacing as her mother starts to pull a brush through her damp hair. “I— I, um—”

“Listen to him when he speaks,” Amadeus instructs. “Laugh, smile, and do  _ not _ interrupt him. Do us all a favor and don’t bring up any of your weird hobbies. If he does ask what it is you like to do, you say…?”

“I enjoy quiet activities,” Bernadetta recites. “I like to read. I enjoy my studies. And I’m fond of looking after children.”

“No mentioning anything like those plants you grow, alright?”

Bernadetta looks from the corner of her eye towards her plants all lined up on her windowsill. The venus flytrap looks so cute with its snappy little teeth craned towards the sun. “I know. I won’t.”

“None of those little dolls or anything. Tell him that you enjoy embroidering tapestries and that you are an expert at mending clothes.”

“Okay.”

Amadeus stands and takes two steps towards her. He looms, tall and imposing, and Bernadetta struggles to not tremble under the weight of his shadow. Politely, carefully, quietly, she turns her face towards him. He doesn’t look cold or warm; he’s wearing what’s almost a pensive expression, eyes flickering over her face for a flaw, a flicker of fear. She swallows and ducks her head, and this seems to please him.

“Lord Aegir will be here in an hour’s time. I am begging you, Bernadetta: just don’t be yourself.”

* * *

* * *

_ One, two, three, four, five, six— _

Counting inexplicably calms Bernadetta down. Counting is good, solid, consistent. Small places also calm Bernadetta down, so the washroom right above the stairs she’s supposed to head down when Lord Aegir arrives is the perfect place to collect herself. She sits on the counter, knees up to her chest, and breathes in and out as she counts, restarting each time she gets to ten.

It’s ten past noon now; Lord Ferdinand von Aegir is bound to be here any second. Bernadetta feels like a diva preparing to step out onto a stage, and she supposes she’s hardly any different from an actress in this scenario. She’s going to go downstairs and put on what is hopefully a good show, doing everything she can to not be herself. She’s going to go downstairs and smile and nod and laugh, and hopefully she does a good enough job that her father won’t take her into his study afterwards for a scolding. Hopefully she does a good job, but not good enough to  _ really _ impress Lord Aegir. There’s a delicate balance she has to find between pleasing her father and coming just shy of pleasing her suitor.

Then again, if she doesn’t please her suitor, she won’t ever please her father.

_ Goddess, Bernie, you just can’t win, can you? _

Bernadetta tucks her head against her knees and reaches up to drag her fingers through her hair, but then remembers that her mother and father will be very upset if she messes it up. Her hair is brushed and smooth for once, rather than full of kinks and sloppy, unbrushed cowlicks. With a low moan, she tucks her hands underneath her thighs. She’s glad she’s gotten permission to wait in the washroom, but it doesn’t mean she can have a breakdown. She’ll mess up her makeup and her hair and possibly her outfit, and that just won’t do.

Her stomach is starting to feel upset.

She wishes Lord Aegir would just show up so she can get this over with.

She wishes Uncle Theo were here.

From downstairs, she hears a door open and the rumble of her father’s voice, along with the high-pitched laugh of her mother. She hears another voice as well. Even though she can’t make out anything they’re saying except for a word here and there, it’s obvious that Lord Aegir has arrived. Her father is going to call for her shortly. Bernadetta uncurls her legs and slides them over the edge of the counter, then hops down and faces the mirror. She squints at herself, trying to see if there’s anything wrong with the rouge on her cheeks or the pink paint on her lips, but her mother has done her up perfectly.

_ Be an actress, Bernadetta. Maybe you can make it fun. _

“Bernadetta?” Amadeus is using the cloyingly sweet voice he always uses when “gentlemen callers” are around. “Lord Aegir is here.”

Bernadetta smooths a hand over her dress and continues to stare herself down. Even if Uncle Theo isn’t here, at least she’s got a little bit of him in the embroidery. She’s lucky she tricked her mother into letting her wear the dress. She wonders if she’ll get a compliment, then sweeps the thought away. No suitor has ever complimented her, much less her clothes. Lord Aegir is bound to be a boorish, self-interested jerk, like everyone else. Probably wouldn’t recognize fine needlework if it bit him on the nose.

“Bernadetta,” her father calls again, more insistent this time.

He’s angry. She gasps, clenches her gown, and throws open the door without thinking. Her parents are conversing with someone on the floor below, and she stands there in the doorway, shaking, unprepared to meet a stranger. What if he’s weird and mean and ugly and— and makes fun of her dress? What if he yells at her for not being a conversationalist? What if—

“Bernadetta!”

Bernadetta stumbles out of the doorway and to the overhang’s railing, squeaking, “Yes!”

Down below, her picture-perfect parents are conversing with a man whose back is to her. She can’t tell much about him, but his hair is a vibrant orange, cutting a stark contrast to his dark clothes. He seems to be laughing easily with her parents; when they look up at her, he turns as well.

Oh, no. No, no, no no no. She hates strangers looking at her. She hates anyone looking at her. She hates these stupid gentlemen callers looking at her.

Bernadetta averts her eyes and heads for the staircase, willing herself to stay calm, quiet, demure. She can feel Lord Aegir’s eyes boring into her along with her parents’, but she can’t lose it. She’s not allowed to. She descends the stairs quietly, doing just as her father taught her countless times. She keeps her eyes averted—but not too much!—and holds the railing with one hand as she lightly hikes up her skirt with the other. Her back is straight, her posture demure, and she just hopes she looks like her father’s perfect image of an ideal wife. With her hands tucked in front of her, she quietly makes her way to her parents, head bowed. The clicking of her heeled shoes seems as loud as a thunderclap.

“This is my daughter.” Amadeus claps his hand down on her shoulder when she joins them, and she fights the urge to jump and squeal. There’s no subtle squeeze, however, which must mean that her descent down the stairs pleased him. “Miss Bernadetta von Varley.”

Bernadetta struggles to not hunch over and hold her arms in front of her. She hopes it’s not overwhelmingly noticeable to Lord Aegir that she’s not interested in looking at him, and that if it is, he won’t say anything about it. She keeps looking at his shoes, noticing how nice and shiny they are. He’s gota be a snob, some jerky weirdo who’ll stare at her for too long with visible disappointment—

The hand on her shoulder squeezes: an obvious prompting to raise her head and look Lord Aegir in the eye. Her stomach twists and turns, but Bernadetta takes a breath and looks up.

Her first impression is that Lord Aegir is far younger than she expected; in fact, he looks right around her age. What’s more, he’s actually handsome, she supposes. He’s tall and lean, dressed in fitted black trousers and an ornate red cape. Bernadetta finds her eyes drawn to the garment. It’s lovely: a high-collared piece that flows down to his waist, decorated with golden embroidery reminiscent of leaves at the edges. It must have been crafted by a master, because every stitch is smooth and even and glimmers in the chandelier light.

Bernadetta looks back up to his face before she lingers on the handicraft for too long. Lord Aegir is actually smiling at her, and the smile really does reach his amber eyes. He looks immaculate with his ginger hair swept neatly over his brow and his clothes free of any speck of dust. She lowers her eyes before she makes eye contact for too long, and her father’s grip on her shoulder loosens.

“Miss Varley.” Lord Aegir has a smooth and sweet voice; she can tell he’s an articulate speaker just from the way he says her name. Bernadetta notices that there’s a thin wooden box in his hands when he puts it under his arm to sweep down into an elegant bow. “I am Ferdinand von Aegir, and honored to make your acquaintance.”

Again, Amadeus squeezes her shoulder. Bernadetta forces a smile and replies, “I’m honored to meet you, Lord Aegir.”

Lord Aegir opens his mouth to say something, but her mother interrupts. “How about we move to the parlor? We can have something to eat while we talk.”

“I would love to see more of your home.” Lord Aegir is still studying her, his eyes so intense to the point where Bernadetta just wants to shrink back and beg them all to please, please stop staring at her, to please let her go back to her room. “Miss Varley, would sitting please you?”

A question. Her lips tremble. “I— Uh, I—”

Harder than before, her father squeezes her. A chill goes up her spine; he’s displeased with her. What did she do wrong? Is he upset with her clumsy tongue? Is he upset that she wasn’t the one to invite Lord Aegir to the parlor? Is she not smiling enough? There are so many things she could be doing wrong right this very second. She can’t do anything right. Her father is going to make her sit at the dining table and practice her eye contact and smile for hours on end, and she doesn’t know if she can handle that.

“I shall only sit if it pleases you, Miss Varley.” Lord Aegir is still smiling, unaware of Amadeus’s grip on her shoulder. “Would you care to do something else? A turn about the gardens, maybe? I saw them when I entered, and they were quite lovely.”

The only thing worse than all of this is doing it  _ outside. _

“No, thank you!” Bernadetta knows she is too loud, but she can’t help it. “Sit—sitting down with you sounds—” She struggles to work out, “lovely, Lord Aegir.”

“Please, call me Ferdinand. I am told that we are the same age. It would not do to have a peer call me by my most formal title.”

Call him by his name? His first name? His  _ goddess-given name? _ Oh, no no no, nope. She has to think quickly and find some way out of this—some way that won’t upset her father.

“I— I wouldn’t dream of dishonoring the heir to House Aegir in such a way!” Bernadetta wonders if her smile doesn’t look psychotic at this point, but no one is saying anything about it. “I’m just fine calling you Lord Aegir… Lord Aegir.”

Lord Aegir blinks, his smile now a bit confused. “Oh, I see. I shall continue to refer to you as Miss Varley… Miss Varley.”

There’s no pressure on her shoulder. Her father removes his hand and gestures down the hallway. “Please, this way.”

Agna nods to Lord Aegir. “Would you like someone to take that box from you, Lord Aegir?”

“Oh.” Lord Aegir looks down at the box in his hands, as though he’d forgotten he was holding it. “No, thank you. I shall hold onto it for now.”

A box? Boxes aren’t good. What’s in the box? Torture devices? A cloth and chloroform so he can knock her out and take her who-knows-where? A weird hobby he’s going to present to her that she’s going to be forced to smile at? He seems nice and normal now, but what if he’s just a total weirdo? Oh, he’s  _ got _ to be a total weirdo.

Bernadetta fights the urge to yank on the ends of her hair and scream as she follows her parents and Lord Aegir down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! a friendly reminder to wash your hands and take care of yourselves


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